


It's A Work In Progress

by House_of_Ares



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2013-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-14 16:21:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/838896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/House_of_Ares/pseuds/House_of_Ares
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They'd talked about STIs before. Clint has an outbreak.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's A Work In Progress

He _hates_ being weak.

Even out of medical for two days and sleeping on the couch at Phil's, he's nowhere near 100 percent. More like 70 percent. Or 60. His bicep – stitched and bandaged – is bruised to hell and back, from either the bullet or the tourniquet or both. He can't tell, and as long as he keeps a couple of Percocet going, he doesn't care.

It feels like he's been dragged through the proverbial knothole backward; after losing almost three pints of blood, he spends most of his time napping or eating.

Phil's at work, but he left food – so much food – and strict orders that Chinese delivery did not count.

He worries a bit of dead skin off his lip; one side is still attached, and it bleeds. He rolls his eyes, wondering if this counts as another wound he has to tell medical about.

He switches the television, pulls up a recorded episode of Top Shot, drinks another bottle of water and half-dozes.

His lip throbbing, not his arm, wakes him up. It feels like he's got a nine-volt held to it, and he slumps on the couch.

Well, _fuck_.

 

He's going to call Phil, needs to call, and they might drag him back to medical, and anyway it will be over, and he's so fucking _tired_.

He falls into a restless sleep, dreams of going back to his apartment and slogging all his stuff and it's just going to be worse. Dragging too much down the sidewalk and wanting so badly to stop on a bench and rest but he can't because they'll steal his bows.

He wakes up, relieved that it was only a dream before it all comes crashing back down. His lip aches and when he tongues it there's a _marble_ under there, huge and hard. It feels like another one's starting in the corner of his top lip and now he can feel that low-voltage twinge on his dick, right _there_ on the head.

 _Don't have the energy for this_ , he thinks, and he curls onto his side. He's going to call Phil, really, in just a minute.

Instead, he weeps silently into the couch pillow and drifts off into another fitful nap.

  
  


He comes home with _banh mi_ and Clint's favorite hot-sour soup and shoulders the door open. Clint's still on the couch, looking even more miserable than when Phil left.

“You doing okay?”

“Never better,” he says, and Phil just raises an eyebrow.

“I brought you your usual from Paris Sandwich.”

“Not really hungry.”

The idea of Clint not being hungry is a huge red flag.

“Oh? Did you clear out the stuff in the fridge already?”

He dumps the bags on the counter with his keys and phone and checks the fridge as he hangs his jacket on a chair. Most of the stuff is untouched, even the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches made with butter the way Clint loves them.

Clint's hardly moved; on the plus side, there are a dozen plastic water bottles in a pile on the coffee table, so at least he's hydrated.

“You've hardly eaten,” Phil observes.

“Yeah. I'm going to go home,” Clint says, and then levers himself awkwardly off the couch.

“Like hell. Lie down, you're not going anywhere.”

“I need to go home,” he says stubbornly, and Phil wants to bang his own head on the wall.

“What's wrong?” He touches jaw and Clint jerks his head away, turns his head and sits down like it's an escape.

“Don't touch me.”

This isn't helping either of them so he brings the sandwiches out with a cutting board and slices Clint's into finger-sandwich strips.

“Eat,” he says, and there's no room for argument in his tone.

Clint eats gingerly, grudgingly, and there's something …off about the way he moves his mouth to take each bite.

“Did you get in a fight?” Phil asks, half-joking because Clint was barely able to drag himself up the steps to the apartment yesterday, but his mouth looks faintly swollen. For just a moment, he imagines it's from kissing, feels a stab of possessiveness at the thought that Clint might invite someone over, in Phil's house. The thought's immediately knocked aside, failing both common and medical sense, but still.

“You could say that. No.”

“Then what happened?”

Clint sighs and shifts and won't make eye contact for a long moment before he looks up defiantly.

“I'm having an outbreak and I'll just pack my shit and get out of here,” he says. It must take every bit of strength he has because for a second, Phil actually believes him and they just stare at each other in excruciating silence.

“Oh, for fuck's sake,” Phil says. “You're not going anywhere.”

They'd discussed this, months and months ago now, and it hadn't been an issue. Phil goes into the kitchen and gets the lysine tablets from the top shelf of the spice cupboard and brings out four.

“Here. Take these,” he says, and takes two himself. They seem to stave off outbreaks. Clint takes them but stares miserably at the sandwich on the board on the coffee table.

Phil sits beside him on the couch, shoving him into a semblance of sitting up, wraps an arm around his shoulders and brushes a kiss over temple.

“It's no big deal, Clint.”

Some of the stiffness eases.

“You sure?”

“Yes. For fuck's sake, I get cold sores too.”

“There's one on my dick.” His tone is almost comically despondent.

“So there's a cold sore on your dick.”

Clint's admission that he had herpes, sometime right before they started having sex, had been so offhanded and full of forced bravado that Phil suspected it bothered him deeply; he feels a little vindicated, but not so much as to let Clint notice.

“Are you sure?” he asks. Clint gingerly pulls it out, using his pajama pants to hold it like a roll in a self-serve bakery.

They both stare down at it for a moment; it's not much but a red spot at this point, but Clint looks like he wants to cry.

“That's a … what's the singular of herpes? A herp?”

That gets a sad little chuckle out of Clint.

“Herp derp.”

“Hey,” he says, and waits for Clint to make eye contact. “This shit happens, okay? Hell, I started getting cold sores from kissing a girl in sixth grade.”

“Yeah, but -”

“But nothing. I'm serious. Call in and have them fill your prescription, I'll pick it up for you. If I had any left I'd give you some of mine.”

Clint nods and works his way through the rest of the sandwich, washing it down with water like chewing completely is too much effort. When he's done, Phil brings cookie-dough ice cream and hands Clint a bowl.

“I don't want to use your spoon -”

“That's what God invented bleach for, Clint,” he says. “Eat.”

 

Later, he re-wraps arm and helps Clint into fresh pajamas – Clint insists on boxers, then flannel sleep pants, the pair with a button. Phil doesn't even argue the point, just slides into bed and wraps around him from behind.

“Don't get too close,” Clint says, and Phil just scoffs into his hair.

“I'm not gonna get any worse than I already have by doing this,” he says.

Clint's asleep a moment later, and Phil doesn't move, just wonders what happened that Clint thinks he's some sort of pariah.

  
  


========================

 

The blisters are broken, healing with the disgusting yellow crust that Phil knows all too well, the way it cracks like salt over skin.

Clint's still self-conscious; he doesn't have to go out much, but he still avoids Phil's touch if it's within a three-foot radius of a sore. He'll admit he's horny, but he's even resorted to sitting down to piss (and then spraying the seat with a ridiculous amount of Lysol) to avoid touching himself for fear of somehow passing herpes to ... the toilet-paper roll, or something. Phil can't figure out what he might touch between the toilet and washing his hands twice with antibacterial soap.

 

The idea hits while he's driving home, so he stops at a drugstore before picking up burritos for them both.

 

He waits until Barton's lying in bed – he's recovering some energy, but he's still on leave for at least another week or until his hematocrit hits 35 and the stitches come out – then comes in with his jacket off and shirtsleeves rolled up.

“I'm going to need to check you,” he says, all business as he pulls on the blue nitrile gloves.

Clint just stares at him in confusion, so he tries again. If Clint doesn't jump in, he's going to feel like a complete idiot.

“I was told you came in so I could check your arm and because you suspect you have an outbreak,” he says, and Clint still looks confused for a moment. “I'm going to need to see.”

Clint smiles and flushes redder than he's seen in ages.

“I hate coming to medical.”

“And we hate having you here. Come on, arm first.”

It's a cursory check; the stitches are fine, the bruising going down, and they're going in tomorrow to have them removed because Phil insists that Clint's not doing it at home with fingernail clippers and tweezers.

“Arm looks good,” he says. “Now the rest. You don't have anything I haven't seen before.”

Clint pulls his pajama pants and boxers down in a move so hesitant he might actually be in medical. Phil slides a disposable Chux pad under him – maybe it's a bad idea to pander to his paranoia, but maybe not. At least Clint doesn't look too uncomfortable when Phil gently holds his dick and examines it, frowning and clucking.

“Definitely an outbreak. We'll need you to come in for an IGG scan tomorrow.” He takes the bottle of lube from the dresser and uses his free hand to squeeze out a dollop. “Definitely need to keep this lubricated, though.”

Clint gasps at the touch.

“It's pretty tender, doc.”

He doesn't have to have had a sore on his cock to know it's sensitive – but he does know his lip tends to itch when it's healing, so he barely brushes a gloved thumb over the sore, then slides his hand down shaft. Clint arches his back and moans.

“Looks like you're pretty hard up.”

“I'm wounded, not dead,” he retorts.

“Turn over,” Phil instructs, and takes off the gloves, tosses them in the wastebasket and gets fresh ones from his pocket.

Clint rolls over obediently on the pad and Phil pulls on the gloves, squirts lube into one and pulls hips up.

“Might as well check your prostate as long as we're here, right?” He slides a finger in before Clint can disagree, and gets a shaky moan.

“Yeah, I guess,” he says, and drops his head to the mattress when Phil presses right _there_.

Another finger and Clint's squirming.

“You just do whatever you need to do,” Phil says, free hand smoothing over the small of his back and tracing spine. “I don't want to bump any tender places.”

“Oh, _shit_ ,” Clint mumbles, and shifts enough to use his hand.

When Phil rolls his balls gently, he's rewarded with a low groan.

“How long has it been since you came?”

“Like...a week and a half.”

He wants to growl and bite and mount, but this is about being safe, making Clint feel safe, so he tries to keep his tone clinical. It works. Mostly.

A third finger and Clint's practically begging.

“Go ahead,” Phil says. “A lot of men ejaculate during an exam.” He keeps rubbing circles, listening to the way the moans ramp up, one hand on Clint's flank so he can feel how he's tensing.

“Please, harder,” Clint mutters. His voice sounds wrecked, and Phil thrusts his fingers in and out, stroking over prostate, until Clint's strangling _goddamn goddamn goddamn_ into the pillow and shaking.

When he finally seems done, Phil pulls the Chux out, wrapping the used gloves and mess inside.

“Don't move,” he says, but Clint gets up anyway and showers briefly. Phil knows he's using the antibacterial stuff, probably a couple of times. He still looks sated when he comes to bed.

He's achingly hard and doesn't really care. “Better?”

“So much. What about you?”

“I'm fine.”

“No, come on, that's not fair. Hand me that.”

Phil passes the lube over and Clint lies beside him, uses his uninjured arm to jerk him off until Phil wraps his hand around Clint's, squeezing a little harder, pushing thumb against the ridge. He comes quietly, head tipped back and just moaning in his chest.

“I want to kiss you,” Clint says, when he can open his eyes again. Instead, he lays his head on chest, careful to keep his mouth away from skin, then grabs a tissue to wipe up belly.

“Thanks, doc,” he says, and Phil taps the lamp to shut it off.

“Anytime.”


End file.
